Falling's Just Like Flying
by TamakiCat
Summary: It's been a few days since John saw his best friend jump off St.Bart's rooftops. And he still believes in him unlike everyone else. And he desperately needs him...Sorrow and numbness are what's left for him to feel. 'Stop this' - JW.


**Author's Notes :** This is quite a sad take on Watson after Reichenbach. Please, tell me what you think of it! I had this idea a few days ago. How much would this blogger be lost without his consulting detective... Not necessarily John/Sherlock, but you can squint to see it if you want. I only wanted to focus on Watson's need of Sherlock, and his ''love'' (frienship, or at least deep and strong feelings) for him. Thank you! And enjoy :)

**Disclaimer :** I own nothing beside the idea, the sadness felt for Watson, and my writing style. :)

Please, review!

Thanks!

_**Falling's Just Like Flying**_

He saw him stretch his arms to each side of his body, then taking the big plunge. He witnessed his fall...That was the most painful view he had ever observed. It was as if everything was in slow-motion, and nothing else mattered... He could perceive each and every movement of Sherlock's arms as they flew and flapped in the air as if accepting his fall yet somehow trying to slow it, his floating coat behind him, and his eyes staring at the ground. John knew he had to do something. He also knew it was too late, but he'd never admit that...he'd never accept that. Never completely. He felt his heart ache for a second, trying to find a way out of his throat, then just sank low in his chest to never really be seen again. His whole body went numb; he couldn't feel anything. The only thing that remained, and it was so loud in his head that, afterwards, he swore it had hurt his skull physically, was a particular thought : ''I need to see him!''

He began to run, feeling as if his legs would fold under him at any second as he headed towards where he had seen his best friend fall. Suddenly, a young biker hit him, and he fell to the ground, hitting his head on the asphalt. He felt dizzy; not only from the physical pain, but from his world being turned upside down. It took John a few seconds to realize where he was, and what was happening. When he did, he tried his best to quickly stand up, and made his way to the worst vision of his life. He had trouble walking due to the hit he had just received. Even his earing was numb as he couldn't quite make out any sound surrounding him. It was only an annoying buzzing in his ears that was resonating all around him as if it had been muffled. He just knew he had to be there. He had to get to Sherlock's side. He needed to see for himself that Sherlock was or wasn't dead... He pushed a few people out of the way, muttering some words he didn't even know were escaping his mouth, not really perceiving any real face, only vague shapes around him. He was focused on only one thing (the rest was awfully unimportant at this right moment) : to get to Sherlock and see for himself that all of this had been a lie. A hurtful, disgusting, and traumatizing lie.

War had been nothing compared to this. It couldn't even have prepared him to this scene. There he was. The greatest and only consulting detective in the world, lying in his blood, pale like death herself, his icy blue eyes staring at the sky, but obviously seeing nothing...His blue scarf still perfectly wrapped around his neck as if nothing had happened, no traces of blood on it nor on his marvelous coat. Although, the wound on the side of his head was evident, and the hair, drenched in blood, was sticking to his face in such an hypnotising yet dreadful way. The worst of this was his immobility. John was used to Sherlock being still, lost in his mind palace, but not like this...No, every feature of the scene and his face screamed he had been taken to the other side, where John couldn't find him so soon. But he wanted to make sure. He needed to, despite everyone trying to not let him pass. He didn't care about that. His heart, body and mind longed to know. Plus, why did the people try to prevent him from getting to his friend, the sole meaning of his life since he had come back from Afghanistan? He shook his head and knelt as he managed to get a bit of space. He stretched his arm the farthest he could and grabbed Sherlock's hand for a second; it was deadly cold, it was frigthening. He then took his pulse. There was nothing there... Not even a tiny throb in his veins. Nothing... It was exactly how John felt at this news : Nothing.

He couldn't stand it anymore. As he kept on saying ''Oh Jesus!'' in pure emotional shock and despair, his legs let go under body, and he fell to the ground even though some unknown people tried to help him stay up. He didn't care about anything at all now. Anything. His heart broke into millions of pieces when he realized it all; Sherlock Holmes, the greatest man to ever walk the surface of the Earth, his best friend, his confidant, his only reason left to live...was dead.

Intolerable days later, John Watson sat in the armchair in front of his psychiatrist, telling her with much grief everything that had happened recently. Deep sadness and emptiness was all he could feel now besides the numbness of his soul and body since the horrific event. He still couldn't believe that Sherlock was a fraud. No, he couldn't. It would have been impossible to plan and research in advance every person they had met and their secrets, right? At least, John firmly believed so...Even though everyone around him told him otherwise, trying to point at all the reasons why it could be Sherlock. It was as if they thought Sherlock SHOULD be a fraud; as if they had made their mind up a long time ago, but in silence. And it enraged John to no end. He clenched his fists, and bit his lower lip in a delusional attempt to prevent his anger and tears to show itselves. No, he wouldn't cry. No, he would not trust anyone else than Sherlock. He knew he had been right all along. He knew he was a genius. Period. As he heard Ella's question, he lifted his chin up whilst taking a deep breath as a mean to pluck up the courage to answer, feeling each and every piece of his broken heart stinging dangerously at his being. It wouldn't be for long...

''What happens to you nowadays?''

''Oh...Nothing ever happens to me anymore,'' he said in a voice filled with deep and gloomy resolution, a grave expression on his face.

He then smiled politely as if obliged, and quickly stood up, grabbing his coat in hands by the way. He left with a small nod and a low-pitched ''Thank you!'' as though his words were as ghostly as he was now. It was time.

Watson had nothing left to live for in this world. His angel was now gone, and he simply wished to reunite with him. Nothing else mattered; since Sherlock's death, everything was gray, if not inexistant in Watson's sight. He always felt as if floating, never really touching the ground; the air around him seemed to gently brush him but never take him in whole like before. He didn't belong here anymore. And he never will again... Life had grown to be too dull without him. He needed his best friend. He wanted his Sherlock Holmes back. But he knew it would not happen no matter how hard he longed for it. Despite all of his crying, his waking up in fear and cold sweat, and his numbness, it would not bring him back. He had been a walking shell since that dreadful day. He couldn't even associate himself with what he was before. He wasn't John Watson anymore. No...He was...something else. And he hated it. He despised the emptiness of his soul so much. He hated the fact that he kept looking for something to fill this void, but would never find it because it was gone forever. And above all, despite the numbness, he hated his heart for still feeling one single thing : his constant need of Sherlock. It had become unbearable. Because everywhere he looked, every day he hoped to hear a familiar sound or see a piece of that man, he crumbled within over and over again. It was a never-ending circle, but he knew how to finish this. There was only one way to mend it all. He'd soon see his angel, the savior of his boring life, and all this torment and pain would end as well. Only one way...

He advanced slowly and solemnly to the edge of the same rooftop he had seen his best friend die. Only one last thing before he was ready and showed the world Sherlock had never been a fraud. He took out his cellphone, wrote his note on it, closed his eyes for a second, digesting for good what he was about to do, then threw the phone away on the cold rooftop. Now he was ready. He gulped, stared far away at the distance and whispered : ''Thank you...I've always believed in you, you know. None managed to mislead me. Not even you... I've been dying inside without you. But don't worry...I'm coming, Sherlock.''

And he took the plunge. The same Sherlock had taken. He could feel his own arms flapping in the air, trying like Sherlock did to not fall flat on the ground even though he was fully accepting his fate. He couldn't stand it any longer. Life without Sherlock wasn't life, it merely was death slowly taking its toll...Right before hitting the ground, he closed his eyes and saw himself and Sherlock laughing like in the old times. He felt a wave of happiness, an emotion he hadn't felt since that fatal sight, and he was ready... John knew people would learn the truth by the simple note he had left behind on his cellphone for whoever was to find it. It contained the exact same four words he last muttered before losing his now worthless life to reunite with the best man he had ever known and so needed by his side :

''I'm coming, Sherlock.''


End file.
